Now, she was being offered to whichever knight won the tournament, one object among many in the prize pot, her whole life determined by the flick of a wrist in a bloody sporting event.
Gwen wasn’t sure the poor girl wouldn’t have been better off with the dragon.
“I think I know the one you’re talking about,” Sir Know-It-all was saying. “Isn’t she a bit... forgive me for saying so, but a bitstupid?”
Laughter. “That seems like a good thing to me,” replied Sir Puppydog.
Gwen felt the muscles in her jaw contract, something stirring deep inside her body.
“Seriously, though.” Sir Puppydog wasn’t done. “So. Fucking. Hot. Tournament or no, I’ve got to take a swing at hitting that.”
“You and every other guy here,” drawled Sir Know-It-All.
“They can have her, just so long as I get there first.” Sir Puppydog’s tone was tense.
There was a roaring sound rising in Gwen’s ears—she longed for something to hold on to, to lean against, something for support. Bad enough the poor girl was being married off to whoever won the tournament—but to be treated like this, ogled and hunted and slobbered over like a piece of meat?
Gwen wasn’t used to letting anger win. She ignored it most of the time, shoving it away into some dark, distant recess of her mind, because anger didn’tmatter. It didn’t solve anything. It didn’t let her change anything about herself, her life, the world around her.
But just now, the anger wouldn’t let her push it away.
“What’s her name again?” Sir Sickly asked, his voice sounding dim and muffled through the rushing in Gwen’s ears.
“She’s a fixture here—Isobelle, I think. The super-hot blonde. Lady Isobelle, yeah.”
Gwen went still, her mind filling with the image of that blue-eyed girl with the impish smile from the market a few days ago. Her interest as she inspected the horseshoes. The knowing glint in her gaze as she talked about Gwen’sfather’swares. Her laugh. Her... hermomentumas she just sailed in, doing exactly as she pleased, taking charge of everyone around her.
Gwen didn’t hear anything else the knights next door said. Something red-hot had filled her, rising up from her very bones to inhabit her muscles and her skin and animate her at last. This time, she didn’t hesitate, strapping on each piece of armor in turn, letting that red-hot fury soak through the cold metal as it warmed to her body.
The next thing she heard, as she threw back the tent flap and reached for Achilles’s reins with one armored hand, was the herald standing on his platform by the lists.
“Next to compete in the qualifying round of the jousting tournament is newcomer Sir Gawain of Toussaint, against Darkhaven’s own Sir Evonwald!”
Gwen barely registered the cheers of the crowd—Evonwald was a local favorite, for all he was starting to get up there in years.Her field of vision through the slit in her visor was limited, but she swung her head around until she could see the raised platform where Lord Whimsitt presided over the tournament—and where the symbolic dragon sacrifice would sit, watching helplessly as her fate unfolded.
She was there. Blond hair perfectly styled, a dress this time of peacock blue to match her eyes, coolly watching proceedings. Holding a snack of some kind, surrounded by her noblewomen friends, and managing not to look like all this was building up to the absolute end of her life.
Gwen had expected to be so consumed by nerves that she’d barely be able to ride. Instead, she swung up into Achilles’s saddle as if her armor weighed nothing at all and accepted a lance from one of the tournament lance boys. She barely noticed riding up to the start of the lists, barely noticed fitting the end of the lance into the platform on her stirrup.
All her life she’d waited for this moment—and now all she could feel was a fury that had built into a white-hot torrent.
At the other end of the lists was Sir Evonwald on his horse, raising his hand to gesture to the crowd, accompanied by a resounding—if a bit stale—cheer in response. Then he turned toward Gwen.
“Sir Evonwald, ready?” the herald cried.
Evonwald slammed his visor down and wheeled his horse around with a flourish.
“Sir Gawain, ready?”
Yes. Bring it on.
Chapter Four
Sir Gawain’s not done yet... just watch
Lord Whimsitt had hired some local girls to rouse the crowds in these early qualifiers, putting them in skimpy clothes and giving them bundles of streamers to wave, in the green and red and gold colors of the dragons. For the most part, these poor cheerleaders swept the streamers overhead in perfunctory arcs, about as interested in proceedings as the rest of the crowd—but just now, the tournament favorite, Sir Ralph, was riding around the lists in a lap of victory. He had dispatched his opponent so easily and thoroughly that they were forced to drag the unconscious boy off on a stretcher. The crowd, bloodthirsty as ever and coming to life for their favorite, loved it.
The man had finished his lap and reined in his horse before Lord Whimsitt’s raised box. Sir Ralph saluted with his sword, and Whimsitt simpered at him in return. Darkhaven’s lord was a portly man of medium height, with an infamous collection of very fine hats that hid his thinning hair. Today he wore a brilliant emerald chaperon-style turban in velvet—the wrong choice, given his temples were now trickling with sweat.
